Waxing Hysterical

Waxing Hysterical

My girlfriends and I were discussing the many wonders of intimate grooming, specifically whether we shaved our pubic hair or waxed and why. I told my girls that I had started shaving after watching a show on TV about a woman who did it because she felt shaving was more hygienic. I liked that idea. I wanted to see if my girlfriends felt the same way. Also, my man LOVES me shaved. Love to please the men folk, I do.

One of my friends shaved like I did and the other waxed. Waxing…. That got me thinking. My girlfriend said she loves the fact that you only have to do it every eight weeks or so in the beginning and that it leaves her skin so smooth. Well, the smooth thing had me thinking… My husband had recently complained of “razor burn” during a recent love making session. I know what razor burn feels like since I have kissed many of those said men folk I like pleasing….

I ran to my nearest beauty store and perused the shelves in my quest for the best wax. I found one that claimed to be specifically formulated for the tenderest of areas. Excited, I made my purchase and ran home.

So, there I am at home with my freshly bought wax. First the wax needs to be microwaved, which I proceed to do. Now would be a good time to warn you that this is the stickiest substance I have ever come into contact with–and I have a five-year old! So I stir the wax up, making sure it’s not too hot. I don’t want to burn myself. That would be an embarrassing trip to the emergency room! Vigorously stirring, the wax starts getting all over my fingers. It’s only when I try to wash my fingers that I find the wax doesn’t come off. “Oh well,” I sigh “I’ll take care of that later…”

So of course, there is no way I could do this alone, as you need to pull your skin taught. So I enlisted the help of my husband, who was all too eager in the beginning. And I mean eager.

Ok, another lovely scene for your imagination; naked from the waist down sitting on the toilet lid, instructing my husband to yank a strip off of my tender bits at the count of three (kiddo had been settled in front of a DVD).

OH MY GOD! It Hurts. It hurts like the worst imaginable thing you can ever imagine. I recently saw The 40 Year Old Virgin. Steve Carrell was speaking to me, and I ignored his warning. It is soo amazing how the profanities fly when ripping hair from your skin. Oh Yeah. They fly fluently.

One…. Two… Three…MOTHER FUCKER!!!! Mother of God. I have given birth. I can handle anything, by Jove! I scared the hell out of my husband. He cowered in the corner for a second.

Whew, ok. Let’s try this again. So I spackle some more sticky wax on my even more tender bits, pry the spatula from my hands to only get the wax at all over my other hand. Pull the skin taught once again… One… Two. HELLS BELLS!!!! He pulled on two!!!

Then my daughter knocks on the bath room door to see what we are doing. I yell at her to shut the door as I am spread eagle pulling the skin taught. She doesn’t go for it. “Whatcha doing in there?” I jump up to reheat the wax and overhear my husband say to the kiddo the following:

“We’re giving mommy a haircut.”

“On her pee pee?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“OK.”

Thank god for little wonders! So settled in front of the DVD once again, and off to the bathroom to finish mommy’s haircut.

By this time wax is all over my forearm; therefore, pulling the skin taught includes me slowly ripping my arm apart from my thigh after each excruciating “rrrriiippp”. Not to mention my ass is stuck to the toilet lid…

Finally I give up because I can’t take the pain any more. My husband is near tears, and kiddo has knocked on the bathroom door two more times.

Thank god for baby oil, that gets the wax off of everything. My nether regions looked sunburned. Putting on panties felt like I was sandpapering my skin. I was bruised, and there were tiny spots of blood. Putting on pants, even more painful. I was beginning to think I would spend the next couple of days walking like John Wayne, staring down Black Bart, ready to dole out harm after he had wronged a saloon gal.

Once dressed I began thinking, there is no way my husband is coming near me for at least a week or a month or however long it took for me to heal. Hands off mister! Off limits until the pain subsided. Besides, I think part of this entire ordeal has left an indelible mark on his soul. I made him do something that most men would have laughed off and gone into the den to catch a sporting event on TV.

So, those Brazilians? I cannot for the life of me fathom why they came up with this ritual, if indeed they did. Maybe whoever thought this practice up, didn’t want to deal with the repercussions, and thought to themselves, “Well those Brazilians are zany enough to actually try this”. “We’ll blame them”! Can’t wait until next time…

By: Ivy McClure, 20.10.2007 | Comments (0)
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